


Blood On The Tracks

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Western, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Sansan, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Guns, Multi, Romance, Tragic Romance, Trains, Violence, Western, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A western expansion themed AU. This is Sandor's story. Sansan will come along eventually. But that isn't the main point of this story. If you want to go on a journey with Sandor this is your ticket. The story begins in Scotland with Sandor's parents and moves to America. A dark, gritty tale with light at the end of the tunnel. </p><p>The first chapter is an intro and warnings as I do not plan on posting warnings at the beginning of any chapter. It's rated M for a reason.</p><p>"He could forgive her for making him want her, hell, even love her. What he couldn’t forgive was the fact that she had made him care."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hello and welcome! I do hope you’re ready. Settle in for a long haul my dears. This will be a western-y AU story. I do believe it will start in Scotland and move to America where the U.S. is starting to be “ruled” by those with the money. The Lannisters are bank owners of course! The Baratheons run the railroads. The Starks the cattle trade. The Lannisters are trying to get their hands on everything by marrying into all the families. Think mid 1800’s. Sandor will be a part of all of this as the trained killer, gunslinger, thug, debt collector of the Lannisters. Railways, sheriffs and deputies, dirt, grime, hand rolled cigarettes, guns, big fucking knives, bare knuckle fighting, whiskey and wine and women oh my! 

I want to put out that general disclaimer one must give at some point or another that I own nothing you might recognize from the Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire universe. I am making no profit from this so compliments (or constructive criticism) in the form of kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. I do my best to answer every single comment. 

First and foremost I would like to express to you that this is a story about SANDOR. I repeat, this is Sandor’s life story. This will start before he is even born, though I will introduce him as quickly as possible. It will eventually, stress on the word eventually, be a Sansan tale. But there’s a lot of ground to cover until then. If you are looking for Sansan action in the first ten chapters this is not going to happen. In fact, if you are looking for it in the first twenty chapters it may not happen. Please see sentence number one of this paragraph. Sansa is a huge, important part of Sandor’s life, but she is not the only thing that has ever happened to him. I want to tell his tale and it involves more than her. 

This is going to be a harsh, gritty, ugly story that should eventually swing around into the happiest of endings that can be managed for our boy. His is a tragic story. If you’re looking for Disney you should run. Run far and run hard. 

I AM NOT going to place trigger warnings at the beginning of a chapter. Not going to. Consider this your warning that if you proceed you are entering a rated R or M story for a reason. This is Sandor’s world. This is an AU inspired by the A Song of Ice and Fire universe. That really should be warning enough but if it’s not please assume that any and more of the following could and probably will happen; abuse and violence towards men, women, children and animals, torture of the same, rape or implied rape of any gender or age, graphic descriptions of war time acts, acts of violence against indigenous people of the land, violence against non indigenous people of the land, suicide or implied suicide, murder or implied murder, hangings, guns, fire, prostitution, abortion or implied abortion, graphic descriptions of sex, hunting and butchering of animals, alcohol and possible drug use, pregnancy and deliver complications . . and so on and so forth. I will add to the list as I think of more. 

Please, by all means, if there is a specific trigger you are not at all going to be able to handle but you want to read the story anyway just contact me and I will PM or email you to give you a personal warning. You can find me on tumblr under naturesinmyeye or you can email me at naturesinmyeye@aol.com. 

Last little bit. Just because I write it doesn’t mean I agree with it.

If you need mood music to get psyched try this one. LOUD. The Builders and the Butchers - Golden and Green

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CirGCKj5ZGw

Cheers! Can’t wait to get a first chapter up and get this train moving. REALLY excited about this one! Look for the first chapter within the next two weeks.


	2. Chapter 1 - Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please see the first entry for warnings. Please contact me if you have any specific questions.
> 
> The intent is to date each chapter and to also give you musical selections for every single chapter. Please follow the link at the beginning of the chapter for a richer experience. 
> 
> Enjoy loves! I know I am :)

_1820-21_

_https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUXmK8cS1v0_

 

Alexander Clegane was a man of impressive stature with a brogue thick as morning fog. His father before him, the kennel master and huntsman, Gregor Clegane, was at least six foot but Alexander stood a head taller than his sire. It was said the Cleganes grew in height and breadth with every generation. No man in the village had yet to beat Alexander in competitions of strength. He had black hair which was a welcome change to the various shades of gold and ginger that surrounded him. His eyes were a dull blue that sometimes looked gray in the right light. Murial loved watching those eyes that looked like the edges of a storm in the sky.

 

When she was younger, Murial had paid little attention to the only son of the Clegane household. He was eight years her senior and didn’t catch her eye until she was thirteen or so. She used to giggle with the other girls her age, watching him and the other men plow or reap the fields, sweat dripping down their bared chests.  During weddings or festivals her da would let her have a glass of mulled wine. Later on in the evening, once the adults were too preoccupied to notice, she would hide with her friends under the tables. They would lie on their stomachs, watching the dancers, and cover their mouths to hide their shocked shrieks when they caught a glimpse at what was hidden under the men’s kilts. Once she had turned sixteen though, her skinny legs and flat chest had developed into envious curves. Her auburn hair danced in the sunlight, while her hips swayed past him and that had been all it took.

 

If there was one thing Alexander did better than build muscle it was to bring in an abundance of meat and furs from the forests and bogs. The head of the Clegane household was good with the hounds and fair with a gun but better with a bow. Alexander was a man set on keeping with the times, who owned several flintlocks to his name. Unlike his father, Alexander was a dead shot every time he pulled the trigger. After a particularly long hunt, he brought Murial back the hide of a white fox. It was known that the animals were rare and the pelts worth several fistfuls of silver. They were a status symbol; prized for their scarceness and the good luck it was said would follow any who were lucky enough to hang one over their headboard. Alexander had tossed the pelt down to Murial as he rode by on his horse and winked at her.

 

At first she had politely demurred when he advanced on her, trying to act the lady. But Alexander was a man used to getting what he wanted and he wasn’t put off by her coquettish act. He had a stern face most of the time but she soon learned he could also be gentle under the light of the moon. Once he had convinced her to kiss him there had been no turning back. Every part of him was just as big as the rest and he took pride in claiming her maiden’s gift.

 

He liked dark ale that you could chew. You could tip Alexander’s glass and no liquid spilt onto the table. His meat he liked rare and his vegetables burnt, she learned. Often she would invite him over for supper and serve him dripping, bloody roasts with charred potatoes. Under his hardness she found spots on him that were soft. There was little hair on his chest and arms like some of the other men. Sometimes, when he’d had a few pints, he would tell her he loved her like nothing else in his life. She was his Pet or his Darling. He’d give her those special names while he plunged into her depths with crushing force. He was a man of contradictions and she loved him for it.

 

They kept at their affair for nearly a year before her blood stopped flowing. One month went by and she tired not to panic. But when one month turned into two, she found her body seemed to ache all over, her feet felt swollen and many of her favorite foods made her stomach try and spill itself in front of others. She went to her sister first, crying and asking Janet what it was she should do. Janet was four years older than her and already round with her second babe. Her sister had given her a tongue lashing for letting Alexander have his way with her for so often and so long, with no talk of marriage, but had then taken pity on her. Drawing Murial into an embrace, Janet spoke kindly.

 

“You tell that man to do what’s right,” Janet said, hushing at her little sister. “If he doesn’t make a plan to wed you, tell da and he’ll go to Master Bennet. They’ll see that your man does his duty.”

 

The thought of telling her father terrified Murial. Father wasn’t known for taking a hand to his children regularly; only if they truly deserved it. And Murial could think of no other act that would cause the switch to come down from the mantel than her recklessly romantic behavior.  Having to go a step further and enlist the help of their landlord to _force_ Alexander to marry her seemed like a nightmare.

 

The next time Alexander came over for supper she made sure to keep ale in his cup at all times. Once he was sated with food and her folds, she told him of the babe she carried within her. He smirked at her, smacked her soundly on the bottom and told her they’d go crying the banns in the morning. Fifteen days from then he’d take her as his bride. Her relief was almost tangible. She could feel it leave her body with her breath and float away as gentle as a soft autumn breeze.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

There was nothing gentle about the weather on her wedding day. It was the middle of March and her Scottish village was being pelted by rain and beaten with wind. The land was slick and the air brutal. Even the poor, sodden sheep in the meadows looked miserable. But Murial couldn’t have been any happier than she was on that day.

 

“Don’t pull so tight!” Murial gasped at Janet, clutching the small table in front of her. “You’ll hurt the bairn!”  Her sister continued to tug on the laces of Murial’s corset while she laughed.

 

“There’ll be no hurting the baby,” Janet assured her, reaching a hand around to pat at Murial’s still flat belly, “it’s tucked safe inside you now. Just like a wee bunny down in a burrow. Safe and warm. Don’t you worry. You want all the village to know you’ve already got a pudding set?”

 

“No!” Murial cried.

 

“Then suck in your belly lass and let me get you in mum’s dress. A few more weeks, you can loosen the corset.”

 

Murial did as she was told; allowing Janet to cinch her into their mother’s wedding dress. Her great-grandmother’s gown had worn out by the time Murial’s mother was ready to wed and so a new one had been made. It was tight around her teats and middle but flared out wonderfully around her hips. It was much nicer than any of her common day dresses; the life of a farmer’s daughter didn’t afford her the chance to dress in more than wool during the week and linen on Sundays. Her mother’s dress was a fine cotton weave of light pink and red. Delicate Chantilly Lace adorned the neckline and sleeves. There was a ribbon of the same lace around the bottom of the heavily pleated skirt. The hem line came up past her ankles, which was perfect for dancing. Under her skirts she had on the pair of stockings she and Janet had rushed to finish in time. They didn’t go with her dress at all but the yellow and black tartan of House Clegane would be hers from this day forth, so she wore the mismatched colors with pride.

 

“Oh Janet, you ruined it!” Murial whined, catching sight of a burgundy wine stain on one of the sleeves.

 

Janet only laughed at her again. “Don’t fuss so! No one will notice and in an hours’ time you’ll be putting your own stains on it. You’re a dove right now. Go and be merry for your man.”

 

Leaving her room for probably the last time, Murial paced the dirt floor of the kitchen until a sounding knock came at the door. Alexander had no brothers to come collect her but he had several uncles. Two of them were at the door, red faced already and howling for her to come and be claimed. Another dram of scotch was shared by all and then they were holding a blanket over her head as they made their way squelching through the mud to the village’s single church.

 

The tired wooden building was full to bursting; nearly the entire village had turned up, as weddings were a time for all to celebrate. Murial would have liked to have had the ceremony on the hill top near Clegane Keep but the weather wouldn’t allow her that particular dream. The cramped church was enough when she caught Alexander’s eye down the aisle. Her dowry had been paid earlier in cattle and a cask of her da’s own peated whiskey that had been blended the year she was born. Alexander’s pledges of pelts and a new flintlock were graciously accepted by her father.

 

Alexander made a fine specimen of a man on his wedding day. Murial adored his house colors and the vest with gold buttons he wore. He’d taken extra time with his softly curled hair. He kept his beard neat in the middle with thick chops on the sides. It looked as if he’d trimmed it too. Murial hardly heard the words spoken to her as she took her man’s hand. Her fingers trembled and his tightened their grip. There was a band of thin gold, a cloth tied round their joined hands, Alexander’s blue gray eyes locked on her green ones and words were exchanged. A slow, lingering kiss was Murial’s entire world before someone let out a whoop of congratulations. The whole church erupted in cheers and whistles while Alexander scooped her up and out into the rain that had died down to a misting.

 

He carried her the entire way to Clegane Keep, set up high on a hill near the landlord’s castle. Master Bennet had sent some of his own servants and musicians to help with the occasion. Everyone was relatively dry and the fires blazing. The great room of the Keep was soon just as full as the church with friends and family and others Murial hardly knew at all. Music and dancing started right away. Boys tried to show off their skill with jigs around swords while the women lifted their skirts a bit and whirled around the room. Alexander joined the musicians for a time; playing the fiddle at a decent tempo. Murial’s head swam with visions of him playing for a swarm of young ones in front of a stone hearth.

 

The bridescake and drop spoon scones were brought forth before the main courses so that everyone could have something to pick at before the feast. Her mother had done well with her cake. It crumbled above her head into a spray of shortbread when Alexander broke it over her. He let out a laugh full of pride and said they’d fill the house with children. Then he blew the crumbs from her hair and asked her to dance.

 

The wedding feast was glorious in her mind. Her stomach was at ease and she ate better than she had in weeks. There had been grouse stuffed with spiced sausage and fried onions on the high wedding table. The skin of the bird’s flesh crackled between her teeth; made crisp with layers of melted lard and the heat from the ovens. The accompanying bread and mashed turnips were soft and drenched in butter. Alexander had his ale he liked so much and he had found her a bottle of her favorite red wine. Most women liked sweet, amber wines but Murial preferred the dark reds; sour and bitter in her mouth. She liked the way it left her tongue dry and her body warm after only a cup or two. Alexander said he liked the way both sets of her lips tasted after she’d indulged.

 

He didn’t waste any time in kissing each pair in turn once they had retired to his rooms. She had never been in his room before. All of their trysts had taken place in the woods, the fields or hay lofts. It felt different laid out on a feather bed, candlelight flickering over her husband’s form as he pressed his mouth between her legs. She knew she probably shouldn’t have shouted so loud when he brought her to soaring relief but she couldn’t stop herself. Wine and happiness lifted her voice to the rafters. He was possessive with his thrusts; caging her under him and grunting with every move from his hips until he too let out a call much louder than he’d ever done so before. They had grinned at one another, kissing for long moments before they started at their unique duet once more.

 

………………………………………………………………………….

 

 

Six months later Murial swore she’d never ever again let him between her legs. Never. Her whole body seemed to be one enormous, cramped ball of pain. She’d been at it for hours. Since late last night, when water had trickled down her thighs, into the afternoon of the following day she tried to bear the pain. Her mum was there along with Mother Clegane and two of Alexander’s sisters. Janet was ill with a cough and dared not come near a birthing mother.

 

Murial longed for the chilly, wet day of her wedding. The August heat was not helping her labor in the least. She groaned and sweated the hours away, crying sometimes and sipping at the water or thin honeyed gruel that was given to her by the spoonful. Alexander had paced outside her door most of the day but then left when she started to scream. Janet said later, she saw him out by a wood pile, a bottle in one hand while the other wiped at his eyes. Murial could hardly believe the story. She’d never seen so much as a single tear escape her husband in the past.

 

It felt as if she was being ripped in two when the little one started to leave her body. She pushed with all her might when she was told to and cried out in agony when they bid her to stop. It seemed to take days before she felt a horrible, tearing shudder come over her. And then her heart pounded through her ribs while she caught her breath and saw the blurry vision of a squalling babe. A girl. A tiny, beautiful girl was placed on her breasts. The little one nuzzled for food almost immediately while Murial wept tears of joy. Alexander was found and presented with his daughter. He shook his head, chuckling and said she’d do but next time he wanted a son. He petted the nose of his daughter with his thumb, declaring that she was just as pretty as her mother. Then he kissed Murial on the head and told her to heal quickly so they could start anew. Murial let out a deep sigh but thought she might let him try after all; but later. Much later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super special thanks to ruebella-b for her work as beta on this one!


	3. Chapter 2  - Birth of a Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the first chapter for all warnings. I am not going to post specific warnings per chapter but this chapter contains graphic/stressful events. Please heed all warnings contained in chapter 1. 
> 
> Link is for music to suit the chapter.

_1821- Jan. 1823_

_<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqg7EhPlKj8> _

House Clegane would thrive or die with Alexander’s lineage. His father had four brothers but one had died early in life, before he had a chance at a wife or children. Of the other three, one remained a bachelor while the others sired nothing but girls. Alexander would have had an elder brother if a fever hadn’t taken the lad at age two. It was only he and five sisters. Alexander understood the responsibility that sat on his shoulders. His mother had paraded maiden after maiden in front of him from the time he came of age but he wasn’t interested in settling down. Not at first. The woods and streams called to him more so then the sheets of a marriage bed. There were enough girls here and there to slake his thirst for flesh when it came calling. Mostly though, he liked his ale and his horse.

 

He’d been taught to hunt with a bow from the time he could manage the strength to pull back on the strings. His father took him on hunts as soon as he’d mastered horseback riding. At age six he took down his first deer. The hefty buck had outweighed him by eight stone at least. Together, his father and he had field dressed the animal and brought the carcass home for his mother to coo and fuss over. His cheeks burned bright with a rosy glow for a week from her pinching. He’d ruined the hide with his mark but the meat was more than acceptable and the antlers fetched a fair price.

 

Alexander was ten when the first musket entered his household. He was amazed at the cold metal, the stained wood and the _noise_. Every time it went off there was a sharp crack like wicked lightening. And he could hold it in his hand! It was nothing more than chaos made solid. It was an illusion of control. Like the reins of his horse in his hands. There was such a precious balance between being the one in control or the one being controlled. One misstep, one wrong pull and the world could shatter. But it never did. His world continued to grew larger, louder and he felt the power of a boy who thought himself a man simmer inside him.  

 

His father hated the musket, giving up on it and declaring it dirty and time consuming. Alexander asked for it and soon found out his true talent lay in bullets and powder, not arrows and bows. By the time he was thirteen he’d made enough coin to purchase two more. His father gave him the key to the gun cabinet and he was fast becoming the greatest huntsmen of Clegane Keep.

 

As he grew older, Alexander found the same thrill he sought from his stallion or rifle as he guided himself into a willing cunny from time to time. There weren’t countless affairs under his kilt but he gave out his fair share of green gowns. They were easy to bend to his will. All of them but one. The skinny farmer’s daughter always seemed to have her nose in a book or her fingers busy at sewing. Murial was her name and she intrigued him from the start. She was too young for him when he first noticed her but he realized her difference then. Murial could giggle and gossip with the best of them but then she’d quote a phrase no one had ever heard before, all the while blinking with curious amusement. She sang like a lark and danced with unending energy. Her hair was past her hips at fourteen and at sixteen she was a marvel to look at from head to toe.

 

He tried conversing with her once she seemed old enough to court and she brushed him aside. It was unexpected and it made him want her all the more. No one said no to him. But Murial did. Time and time again. She didn’t understand she’d sealed her fate with her rejection. Murial’s mistake was to always look back over her shoulder after she’d spurned him. She wanted him to pursue and he was more than eager to oblige her. He was a hunter after all and she was the sweetest prize to be won.

 

Murial was an intelligent woman. He had to admit to the fact. She was beautiful, warm, kind and quick witted. Alexander was taken with her because she forced him to slow down and realize she was more than a pretty face. The first time he had her he realized just how clever she was. Because, in the end, he found he’d given her his heart long before his body. It was near impossible for him to say so but she seemed to understand.

 

He took her out to the cliffs above the coves of water near their village. She would read him poetry while he scoffed and said it didn’t make any sense. Kissing him, she told him that’s all poetry was. Feelings on paper. Emotions turned into words.

 

“Is that so, Pet?” he teased, inching his fingers under her dress and up to her center. “Tell me what words there are for this.” He never did get anything out of her other than deep moans when he took to winding up her little ball of yarn.  

 

She had him over for supper every week. Murial peppered his food too damned much but Alexander never complained. She barely cooked his meat, which he liked; if it could have, it probably would have continued to bray at the table. There was always some sort of vegetable and ale to go along with it, each black as pitch. He couldn’t fault her heavy hand with the seasonings. She did every thing else perfectly.

 

The thought of marriage had entered his mind after Murial came into his life but he was a coward in discussing such matters. He had all he wanted and Murial seemed happy enough. There seemed no reason for the time being to disrupt what was already working for the both of them. Things changed when she told him he’d gotten her with child. A few years prior he might have panicked and fled. Instead, he felt an elated sensation rush in like the wild winds from the hills and he took her as his bride as soon as it had been possible.

 

His father and mother had been skeptical at first; Murial was a good girl to be sure, but she wasn’t an appropriate social match for him. There were young craftsmen’s daughters or even their own landlord’s git he could have his pick from. Alexander swayed them when he pointed out Murial’s large family. Murial’s mother had a reputation for being the strongest and most fruitful woman for hundreds of miles around. She had birthed many children in her day. There were fourteen of them! Not a one had died and a dozen of them were boys. If Alexander was meant to produce heirs for the Clegane household, Murial was the key to success. There was sense in his reasoning that his parents couldn’t argue with. They gave their blessing and Alexander found himself joined to a woman both precious and dear to him.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Their first born came to them at the end of August. Alexander had hoped for a boy of course. Murial said she didn’t care either way but if he wanted a boy she would pray for one as well. When he’d been told Murial had birthed a girl there was a part of him that was disappointed. It disappeared when he laid eyes on his daughter’s face. She looked soft; a spring lamb born in the heat of summer. Small and fragile and just as bonnie a lass as her mother. The bairn had the green eyes of her mother and a spray of black on the top of her head. Truth be told Alexander was a proud man that day. Murial and he were young. There would be many children to come, boys and girls, and they would all be loved.

 

The night after his daughter’s birth he shouted out his boastful cries of fatherhood for three separate taverns. His cup never ran dry that night as any man still standing with him clapped him over the back and refilled his ale. Alexander wasn’t entirely sure how he made it home that evening. There may have been a donkey and an angry barkeep involved. But in the morning he woke in his own bed to the sight of a crinkled, pink face, spitting milk bubbles at him.

 

The girl was named Flora though they had taken to calling her bunny. Murial’s sister had inadvertently given the wee one her nickname on their wedding day.  Flora’s name was a tribute to both her mother’s love for mythology and the fields that were her probable place of conception. She grew at a normal pace, neither too plump nor too thin. Flora liked to babble to anyone who would listen and she was, for the most part, a pleasant babe. Their bunny was just as adorable as her pet name; even when she pouted Alexander thought her a treasure. Her first six months flew past them all quickly and by the time she was ten months, Murial was beginning to swell with their second child.

 

Alexander stayed near the Keep as much as he was able. Hunting took him from Murial for days or even a week or so at a time. Three or four times a year his father, uncles and he would travel the neighboring lands, trading and selling pelts, cured meat, antlers, skulls and whatever else could be turned into profit that came from an animal. During his travels he made sure to find a new book or piece of cloth for Murial. When their daughter was born he brought her back ribbons or carved wooden rattles. She drooled on all of them with equal enthusiasm.

 

On their first wedding anniversary he presented Murial with a book of poetry. He wasn’t an eloquent speaker. Thinking on his true feelings for his wife and child often left him tongue tied and sometimes confused. It was easier to let someone else do the talking for him. He met an immigrant in one of the villages; a traveling salesman, much like Alexander himself, with a hunched back and dark eyes. The man peddled books on a cart drawn by two sad looking mares. When Alexander told the man of his desire for something special for his wife the man had nodded and pulled a blue bound book from under a pile of others. It was a volume of poetry from the man’s homeland, by a lad nearly the same age as Murial. There were tales of wine and war but also those of love and honeyed kisses. The man pointed out a particular passage and Alexander bought the book for the asking price. When he gave Murial the book, he dog eared the poem shown to him and let it speak the words he meant but couldn’t say. Murial loved the entire volume, cover to cover. She read it often and it became one of her favorites over the passing years. She delighted in the fact that the author’s name was Sandor. It was so very close to his own that it let her pretend the words held within really were his.

 

****

**_“I'll be a tree, if you are its flower,_** **** __  
Or a flower, if you are the dew-  
I'll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,   
Only to be united with you.   
  
My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,   
I shall be a star above on high;   
My darling, if you are hell-fire,   
To unite us, damned I shall die.”

 

………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Flora’s first birthday passed and they all settled in for the fall harvests and winter.  The girl had been showered with gifts from both sides of the family. Flora seemed a clever young thing; she could already speak a few words and toddled next to her many aunts and uncles. Murial sat and tried to catch her breath through most of the celebration. Though Murial was only five or six months along with their second babe she was nearly as round as when she was ready to birth Flora. Alexander rubbed at her belly and hoped she would gift them with twins.

 

December came and went and Murial continued to carry their second inside her. They had thought it would arrive sometime in the month but the New Year came upon them and still the babe kept it self tucked away. Murial was exhausted. The last month she’d grown larger still. Alexander’s youngest sister, Dona, tended to Flora most of the time.  Dona was fifteen and not yet wed or with child. She had the time to spare to help Murial tend to a spirited child.

 

The midwife of their village had taken special interest in Murial’s girth and had advised her to stay in bed as much as she was able to save her strength for later on. It was highly likely that Murial was carrying more than one babe, it was explained to the both of them, and she’d need all the rest she could manage now, before the birth.

 

Finally, a week into January, Murial squeezed at his arm in the quiet darkness just before dawn. Her grimace told him all he needed to know and he left their room swiftly to go fetch his mother. After Murial had been checked on and made as comfortable as possible, Alexander rode to her family’s house to inform the women there of Murial’s labor.  They would wait until later to collect the midwife. Murial’s last birth had lasted many hours and there was no need to call for the woman just yet. Alexander spent his morning helping with the hounds and butchering a half dozen animals he and his father had brought in the day prior. Every few hours he’d check in with his mother to see of Murial’s progress. All day his wife lay in bed or tried to walk.

 

Late into the night Murial seemed to have made no headway. The baby was stubborn and didn’t move within her as quickly as the last one had. Alexander fell asleep in a chair outside her door. He was woken in the morning by shouts of pain. His heart felt heavy thinking on Murial’s distress but he took her calls as a good sign. Remembering Flora’s birth, he was certain Murial’s cries meant a babe was soon to follow. He stayed put this time; he wouldn’t turn craven and run like he had during Flora’s birth. But then hours went by and still she groaned out awful low wails of suffrage. His mother came out and said it was normal sometimes. The baby was only taking its sweet time and would arrive when it was ready. So Alexander sent in a flower for Murial with his mother and tried to go back to work.

 

A second night came to pass. Alexnder couldn’t sleep that night at all. He was worried, hell, scared even. He didn’t recall any of his siblings births taking this long. Murial was sobbing from the other side of the door. Janet scurried through the door and Alexander caught a glimpse of Murial standing but held upright by two of his sisters. There was blood on her night dress.

 

“We need the midwife, now!” Janet shouted at him. He was stunned and frozen. “Alexander! Now!” Murial’s sister rose up onto her tip toes and smacked at his jaw to get his attention. He nodded once, his stomach tight with anxiety as he ran to the stables for a horse.

 

The midwife was up and in her simple work clothes within minutes of hearing Murial’s trouble. Alexander’s voice shook as he explained all that he was aware of. He’d brought one of his own mares for the midwife to ride. That and the horse he was on were the two fastest of the Clegane’s stables. Once they had made the front yard, Janet was there to greet them and usher the midwife to Murial’s chamber. Alexander could hear his wife’s screams from the yard. He bit at his tongue and prayed for the first time in many years. He’d wanted children; many of them, but not at the cost of his darling.

 

Making his way to the hallway outside their shared room once more, he slumped down to the floor. Waiting and waiting for minutes and then hours. The door opened a few times to allow the women to fetch more water, rags and rope, though Alexander had no idea what any of it was for. He was confused and frightened; none of which he was used to feeling. His mother came out after a long while with a worried look on her face.

 

“The babe is trying to come out feet first. It takes longer and the midwife thinks it’s only one babe. A large one. It’s making things difficult and causing some bleeding,” his mother explained, her voice wavering with her own fears. “I’m sorry. No one can do anything but help her to get through it.”  Alexander lowered his head and felt his mother comb her fingers through his hair like she had when he was a boy in need of comfort. Then she told him to continue with his prayers and disappeared behind the door once.

 

Another hour went by. Alexander thought he’d go mad if he had to listen to Murial any longer. She was babbling, cursing and sounded wretched. He swore he’d never touch her again. He lurched to his feet, ready to go find a bottle after days of fighting the urge when the sounds from the room died off. There was nothing for one long minute and then came the hearty cry of a newborn. Alexander was hardly aware of the tears that filled his eyes. They were alright! They were going to be fine.

 

The door opened and Janet shoved a blanketed bundle into his arms. “Take him,” she shouted, “you take him now and stay out of way!” His heart thudded loud in his ears. Janet rushed back to her sister, leaving the door hanging wide open in her haste. There was blood! Blood everywhere! The sheets were stained with it. There was a pool of it on the wooden beams of the floor. The midwife was yelling out orders for more rags, pressing on Murial’s stomach with force while his mother smacked at Murial’s cheeks. Murial looked as if she’d passed out cold. All the color was gone from her face leaving her skin resembling the white snow outside. Her mother wailed and rocked in a corner of the room. There was so much blood!

 

Alexander felt an odd sensation. As if everything weren’t quite real anymore. Murial wasn’t going to die was she? She couldn’t! They’d only been married a year and some months. He couldn’t raise two young ones on his own! His heart that had pounded moments ago began to slow, as if its rhythm were connected with Murial’s. There was a sick feeling in his gut; a crawling, worming sensation that made him clutch at the doorway with a hand to steady him self. Sounds were muted and far off. The shouts of the women, the wind outside, and the infant in his crooked elbow all swirled into a nauseating cacophony. 

 

The babe in his arms arched and threw its limbs wide from its body. It shivered with every new cry from its lungs. The blanket pulled back and Alexander saw it was indeed a boy. A huge, healthy looking babe but Alexander could find no joy in that moment. The baby continued to howl, needing comfort or food, and all Alexander could do was stare at his wife bleeding out among the blankets of their marriage bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you Ruby for keeping me on task! 
> 
> The poem in the chapter is I'll Be a Tree by Sandor Petofi. A Hungarian poet, you can read more about him here . . .
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%C3%A1ndor_Pet%C5%91fi
> 
> He was born in 1823 so I played with the time line a bit but it worked well for what's to come : )


	4. Chapter 3 - Awakening

_Jan. 14 th, 1823 – Jan. 1825_

 

Three days. Murial lay sleeping for three days that seemed to stretch on and on. Alexander sat by her side the entire time. He wore the same mud splattered, filthy clothes as the day his son had been born. The dirt crusted at the edges of his breeches and left crumbled cakes of it on the floor. Food was brought to him but he ate little of what was offered. At night he fell forward in his chair, folding his arms under his head and sleeping with his hair touching Murial’s arm.  He dreamt of blood and woke well before the sun came up.

 

Life continued on around him for those few days but Alexander felt a great deal distanced from it all. It was as if he were frozen in time and everyone else was moving at an inhuman speed. They twittered around him, the sounds of them slurping at their meals or chattering to an unresponsive Murial left his stomach churning. Noises were too harsh for his ears and light too bright for his eyes. He shut the curtains to their chambers and ordered everyone but the mothers and the midwife from Murial’s room.

 

Murial’s mother visited during the day. At night she went home to tend to her still young children. Three of them were under the age of ten. His mother-in-law bathed her daughter with fine pored, mustard colored sponges and worked broth down her throat. Alexander helped to hold his wife’s limp body up to be dressed in new bedclothes. 

 

Yesterday, his mother had asked him about a name for the child. It was Sunday and the minister wanted to baptize the lad. In his teary stupor Alexander had mumbled his own father’s name and his first born son had been blessed that day his grandfather’s name instead of his da’s.

  

The midwife tried to be reassuring. There was no sign of fever and that was a very good thing. Alexander refused to leave the room while the midwife dabbed healing pastes on Murial’s torn womanhood, but he did turn his back. The woman left them with oils to infuse in steaming water and hold under Murial’s nose. Healing tonics, the old woman told them, ones that would bring color back to Murial’s lips.  

 

Little Gregor was presented to Alexander and he barely looked at the child. If not for Alexander’s mother and sisters the young one might have perished. Alexander couldn’t bear to look at it. Not while Murial continued to hover between life and death. A wet nurse had been hired and brought to live in the Keep for the time being. The midwife said it was best. Though Murial’s breasts leaked milk the midwife said his wife shouldn’t be made to try and feed a babe at the moment. She needed every drop of strength to be gained for her self. The baby was going to have to make due with the aging wet-nurse.

 

Alexander could hear the boy shrieking at all hours of the day and night. Unless it had its mouth full of teat it wailed like it had been beaten. They tried bringing the bairn in to lie next to Murial, thinking the scent and feel of its mother would calm him, but he screeched in the bed next to her. It seemed a monstrous thing to Alexander. It was the size of Flora when she’d been four or five months! Little Gregor kicked his legs into Murial’s side and Alexande’s voice was harsh as he yelled at the wet-nurse to take Gregor away before he tossed the boy out himself. The wet-nurse trembled, scooping up the babe. She didn’t try at bringing him back. 

 

Mid-morning of the third day found Alexander in his usual chair with his head in one of his hands. He wasn’t sure if the slight tinge of coral to Murial’s cheeks was real or a hopeful imagining. She took in a deep lungful of air and Alexander sat up in his chair, alarmed by her change in breathing. Murial’s eyelids twitched and one of her hands came up to her brow. She was moving on her own! Alexander was on his feet and bending over her in less than a second.

 

“That’s it dearest, try and open your eyes,” he called to her, ashamed that his voice cracked and glad it was only his mother there to witness such weakness. He’d gone teary eyed a few times over the years but as Murial blinked at him, with a weak smile on her face, he lost himself to racking sobs for the first time in his life. He was so tired, he realized. Knees giving out from under him, he half fell on top of Murial. He felt her fingers in his hair as he wet her nightdress with his tears. She tugged at him feebly.

 

“Don’t cry, love” she hushed at him and then addressed his mother. “Why is he so upset?”

 

“You gave us all a fright, child,” Mother Clegane answered. “He was worried is all.”

 

“The baby?” Murial asked hopefully while Alexander tried to calm himself.

 

“Can you not hear him? Hear that wailing? That’s your son! Lungs of iron that one has. He’ll be glad to see his mother as well.”

 

After Murial had taken in warmed milk and bread they brought little Gregor to her. She marveled at his size and understood why she had caused so much worry. Though the midwife still advised against it, Murial let the boy suckle at her breast. They were sore to the point of pain, she complained, and so the midwife had agreed to no more than two feedings a day. The wet nurse would take the burden of the others. Gregor still fussed the majority of the time but he seemed to settle the slightest amount now that his mother could speak to him. Murial tried to sing to him but every time she did the baby would bite her teat.

 

It took Alexander a month after she’d healed fully for him to gain the courage to approach her in the night. Murial had seemed to warm to the idea of being intimate once again faster than he. For a few weeks he side stepped her advances with his fingers and mouth. It was lunacy when he stopped to think about it. As much effort as he had put into chasing her in the beginning and here he was running away from her now! But it was hard for him to keep himself up for her at night when during the day he had to hunt and gut animals. The blood on his hands, as he worked his way through organs and meat, reminded him too much of Gregor’s birth. Even in complete darkness he still saw red stains on his hands as he touched his wife’s body.

 

When they finally did have at each other once more, he made sure to spend him self on the sheets and not inside her. On occasion, he couldn’t help but spill himself within her. The morning after such incidents he made her drink a bitter herbal tea he’d gotten from the midwife. It wasn’t a guarantee that his seed wouldn’t take hold but it was better than nothing. For an entire year Murial let him worry and stain the sheets. After that time, she put her foot down.

 

“I want another babe,” she told him one day.

 

“What if it’s like Gregor? You can’t go through that again,” he argued. He wanted more children as well but the risk wasn’t worth it to him. He had a son. They’d both done their duty to the household. Gregor was a large, hale and hearty lad showing no signs of ill health. There was no need to try for anymore. All of these things he said to her and she only shook her head back at him.

 

“I know we don’t _need_ anymore,” she said sadly, “but, Alexander, I _want_ more. I want them with you. It won’t be like last time. Gregor was a fluke, even the midwife says so.”  Alexander saw the quick flash of fear in her eyes though. She had her doubts as well but was willing to look past them for the sake of making more babes.

 

“Please,” she quietly pleaded, “Gregor is so rough. I love him, I do. But I want more babes like Flora.”

 

In the end he had given in to her. Murial was a good woman. He’d give her anything in the world that was within his power to do so. She made sure to show her pleasure in his decision when they rolled between the blankets that night. She had him three times! They hadn’t fucked like that since their first few months of marriage. Perhaps another child wasn’t such a bad idea after all, he mused; sweat dripping off of him as she rode atop his cock. In the morning, she tossed the midwife’s tea into the winds outside their window.

 

Another year went by and there was no sign of a child. Neither one of them minded all that much. They were busy with their two toddling babes and were left tired by the end of most evenings. If another young one wanted to make an appearance they would welcome it. But in the mean time, they enjoyed the children they had, slept when they could and laid with each other often.

 

After two years of trying though, Murial became troubled. There hadn’t been any problems with conceiving before Gregor; in fact her body seemed keen to gift them with many children just a few years ago. She went to the midwife in a fretted state. When she came back, hours later, her eyes looked dim and distant. That night Alexander caught her weeping when he came to bed. He was terrible at dealing with women’s tears.

 

“Alright?’ he asked, setting himself beside her on the bed and patting her knee.

 

Murial sniffed into a corner of the sheets she’d brought up to her face. “The midwife says Gregor’s birth likely scarred me inside. It might be too hard for your seed to push through. And even if it did there might be no wall for it to cling to inside me.”

 

It was more devastating to her than him, he knew. But he put an arm around her none the less and shushed at her while she cried out her heartache. “We can still try,” he told her. “There’s no harm in trying. She didn’t say it was impossible did she?”  Murial lifted her head to look at him. She shook her head once. “Then there you have it!” he exclaimed. “Give it time, Pet. There’ll be more, you’ll see.”  Murial smiled but it was a false one given to settle him. He sighed, not knowing what else to do for her. Lying down on the bed he motioned for her to join him and blew out the candle.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

_July 1826_

“Gregor! Lord, lad no!” Alexander hollered at his son. They were in the kennels together. Gregor often liked to roll on the ground with the pups so Alexander took him along when he was able. He left the lad with a pile of day old puppies and went to check on the meat supply for the whelping bitches. They gave all the hounds a mix of grain and fresh meat; it kept the animals lean and in good health.

 

But when he turned around, at Gregor calling for him, he quickly moved to help the poor pups within his son’s grasp. The boy had three puppies, two in one hand by nothing but a hind leg and a third, alone, and gripped by its tail. They all whined pathetically. Gregor was lucky the mother hadn’t ripped his hand off!

 

“Be easy with them, lad,” Alexander scolded, having to physically pry Gregor’s fingers from the pups limbs. He placed two in his pockets and squatted down to show Gregor how to hold them properly. Certain he’d given this lesson before, he made sure Gregor watched as he picked the pup up by the scruff of the neck and then placed it in an open palm. He gently laid the puppy back on the ground.

 

“You try,” he instructed Gregor. Gregor picked the puppy up same as his father had, by the folds of skin around the back of its neck. Then there was a mischievous gleam in the boy’s eye and before Alexander could stop him, Gregor flung the pup at a wooden stall door with all his might. It lay wheezing for a few moments and then it didn’t stir at all.

 

Alexander went red in the face. The boy tried his patience ever day but he’d gone too far this time. That was good money in the ground now and no excuse for it at all. Gregor squealed and clapped his hands. “All gone!” he shouted, jumping in place.

 

“Aye it’s all gone,” Alexander thundered. Gregor stopped his antics and sucked in a breath. Alexander’s hand came down to clap his son over the head, hard and with force. Gregor blinked a few times before his face fell and he started to cry; tears as round as the cheeks they slipped down and large as marbles too. “You deserve that!” Alexander continued, “That’s food off the table and wood out of the hearth now because of what you did! You want your mother and sister to starve? You treat the hounds with respect. That’s what keeps us all living. Don’t you dare ever harm one again, you understand boy?”  Gregor sniffed and rubbed at the back of his head while he nodded.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………...

 

_May – Oct. 1828_

 

Murial was giddy. Alexander hadn’t seen her so full of laughter and life since they’d been wed; or when she had first held Flora in her arms. It had been three months and there’d been no blood flow between her legs. The only other signs that she was with child was a slight headache here and there and her swollen feet that made her shoes uncomfortable.

 

Besides that she seemed to have no issues. She ate and drank with relish. There were no aches and pains. She didn’t restlessly toss at night complaining of the weather being too hot or too cold. Her breasts had just started to fill in again and her hair shone like the sun itself. It was thicker and silkier within Alexander’s hands. And she wanted him! Day and night; whenever he was home and available she would pull on his thumb, her secret little sign, and giggle all the way to their bedroom. He certainly had no problems with _that_ particular side effect.

 

The new one was doing wonders for her, he could see it every day as both her smiles and belly grew. Alexander was still living with fear in the back of his mind but Murial’s happiness and faith kept him afloat. If all went well with this babe’s birth, perhaps it would clear the path for more siblings to follow. The five year gap between Gregor and the new one was good for all but a chance to start over again with a fresh batch of lads and lasses sounded quite appealing. 

 

What he didn’t know was Murial’s hidden thoughts on the babe inside her. When she first suspected she was with child she had made an excuse to go down into the village. While there she saw the midwife and it wasn’t until the old woman confirmed Murial’s hunch that she let her husband know of their new arrival. There was no need to put old thoughts and worries in his head for no reason. Alexander had been pleased with her news though she knew the way he bit at his lip meant he was troubled. There was no way to avoid thinking on past events completely.

 

Murial could not say how she knew all would be well in the end. She just knew it; in her bones and in her heart. She also knew this was going to be her last babe. Five years it had taken for one to grow roots inside her. There had been three others before it, only a month or two old. She never told Alexander; she didn’t have it within her to break his heart. She cried on her sister’s shoulder and stood strong for her family, praying that the good Lord might see fit to let her keep just one more.

 

Once she had made it to her fifth month she breathed easier and hugged the lump in her belly. She sang to it, read it stories and poetry and told it that it was loved often. This was her last, she was sure of it. There weren’t going to be any others. It was too hard of a task for her body to cope with. After this one there would be no more. Murial was going to give this one all the love she had stored up for all the babes she’d never have.


	5. Chapter 4 - Second Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link to this chapter's song is a very important one to me and I encourage everyone to listen to it. It's Devinere by Ludovico Einaudi. It means "to become".

_https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1DRDcGlSsE_

 

 

The new one was gentle on her. Murial recalled Flora’s fluttering movements within her. Her little bunny had quivered inside her in spasms. Gregor had been much different. The boy had seemed to know exactly how to press on the organs inside her to cause the most discomfort. Sometimes it felt as if he were punching her! And it was always at the most inappropriate times. At night, while she tried to rest and recoup from his restless movements, the sharp pains he sent through her lower back were like an animal biting her. Before Sunday worship she would relieve herself in preparation for the long sermons only to have Gregor squash him self down on her bladder in the middle of service. There had been several close calls due to his mischief.

 

But the new baby lay inside her calmly. It would shift every once in a while; a lazy roll with nothing more than perhaps a small bump visibly sliding under her skin. At night it was more active but she found a hummed lullaby would settle it back into its warm slumber.  Murial found her self completely in love with the babe before it was even born. That feeling hadn’t hit with the others until she’d seen and touched them.

 

“Do you think it’s a boy?” Alexander asked, lifting her nightdress to press his palm to her roundness.

 

“I don’t know,” Murial answered honestly. “It doesn’t feel like either Gregor or our bunny. It could be either.” The baby turned smoothly inside her. It seemed to like the voice of its father as well as hers.

 

“Another few weeks?”

 

“Anytime now.” Murial put a hand to her husband’s cheek. “It’s not nearly as large as Gregor. Maybe a wee bit bigger than our bunny but perhaps that’s a good sign. Perhaps it will be a second son after all.”

 

Alexander smiled at that, leaning his head down to her belly. “Be kind to your mother,” he told the little one inside her.

 

A kiss to her stomach turned into a kiss to her breasts as he worked him self under her hitched up nightdress. After a time, he growled and pulled the entire thing over her head. He placed her on her side, filling her while he lay behind her. Both of them shuddered and moaned through their pleasure. When he reached up to cup at her milk heavy breasts his fingers drew wet trails down her body. It wouldn’t be weeks. Murial knew from past experience. It would be only days until the new one arrived.

 

 …………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

_Nov 2, 1828_

 

Murial was right and she was wrong with her prediction. The very morning after Alexander had her, she woke with a heavy sort of pressure round her middle that came and went. At noon water trickled between her thighs though the ache in her belly was little more than a tight squeeze on the very edge of true pain. It was like getting a breath taking hug from a long absent friend or a well meaning, but clumsy, relative. Murial smiled and patted at the babe within her.

 

“Alright, little one,” she cooed. “When you’re ready.” 

 

She was able to seek out Mother Clegane and a sister-in-law by herself. Mother Clegane went to tell Alexander and her family while Murial rocked in a chair contentedly. The sky outside had grown dim. It had started as a sunny day and Murial had hoped to sit with the sun on her face as she labored. But the sky turned dark, so she lit a few candles and read her favorite book of poetry instead.

 

Alexander had stuck his head through the doorway, disbelieving his mother’s claims that all was well. The only time Murial had ever seen true fear in her husband’s eyes was when she first announced her latest pregnancy and now, with the little one’s birth drawing so near. He brought the midwife next, though all the women insisted she wasn’t needed. He didn’t care. Alexander pressed extra silver into the old woman’s hands and told her she wasn’t to leave until the child was born.

 

Thunder rolled outside just like the babe inside her did as it was growing. Now her stomach was tight with tension as it worked the bairn out of her. For the first time Murial felt as if she were actually creating something; something marvelous to be treasured at all costs. Flora’s birth had been a fog of nervousness created by the unknown. Gregor’s bloody entrance had been a horror, what little she could remember of it. Her third child made her feel a true mother made of earth and heavens.

 

By supper time she had moved to the bed, her blue book of poems forgotten but nearby and touching her fingers as she pushed. It was nothing like the others. There was a familiar burning sensation and waves of cramps but it was so mild compared to the first two. Outside her window, winds howled and the sky went murky gray and then a deep shade of purple. There were loud, anxious shouts in the hallways. There was a wind tunnel sweeping the village! The Keep should be safe on its high hill but there was still worry roaming the house.

 

“Don’t you mind all that,” the midwife said, patting Murial’s parted thighs. “You worry with bringing the babe into the world. Let everyone else bother with the storm.”

 

A booming crash of thunder sounded as Murial gave out a final cry. She breathed deeply and fell back onto her pillows. She felt tired but not exhausted. It was like waking in the morning from a sweet dream. Regaining her breath fully, she listened for the call of her much anticipated babe. She smiled, waiting on the warmth of a searching mouth at her breast. But nothing happened. The room was silent. Murial pushed herself up on her elbows and Janet quickly stooped over to block her view of the baby. But she’d seen blue! Not red or pink or even purple. Blue!

 

“What’s wrong? What is it?!” Murial shouted, terror racing its way through her veins as she pushed at her sister.

 

“Murial, just wait, dearest,” Janet said shakily, “just give her a moment.”

 

Murial wailed, grabbing at her sister’s form and twisting to look past her. The midwife was cutting at the cord wrapped around the babe’s neck.

 

“Is it . . . is it?” Murial sobbed, shaking in her sister’s arms. It couldn’t be! She’d felt it move just this morning!

 

“Not yet he’s not. Not if I can help it, Hasn’t taken a breath yet though,” the midwife explained hastily. There was sweat dripping down the woman’s nose. Once the babe was free from the noose around its neck, the midwife held it between her hands. She laid it belly down on her forearm and held its head securely. Then she swung her arms, up and down; a huge swing, trying to force life into the unmoving child. Murial struggled in Janet’s hold. The midwife’s movements were too rough for her liking. That wasn’t a way to handle a babe!

 

“Murial, hush!” her sister said harshly. “I know it is hard. Let her do her job.”

 

Murial buried her face in Janet’s wavy red hair, unable to stand the sight of her babe being tossed so carelessly anymore. She cried and prayed and waited.

 

“It’s a boy?” she choked out through her sorrow.

 

“Aye, a boy,” Janet replied, her own voice thick with unshed tears while she rubbed circles onto Murial’s back.

 

Two minutes went by from the time of the boy’s birth to the time of his first breath. To Murial it seemed like two decades. His first cries were sputtered weakness but they grew in strength with each gasping inhale of his lungs. The midwife let out a great sigh and used a cloth to wipe a glob of spittle from inside the babe’s mouth. Murial reached her arms out in panicked relief. Once the midwife was satisfied with the babe’s calls she handed him over to Murial.

 

Murial clutched the babe to her chest with desperate force. He was beautiful! Flora had been wrinkled and Gregor huge. The boy in her arms was perfect. A glowing pink spread over his features as he took in more life giving air. Murial kissed at his forehead and tried to sing his favorite song to him through her tears. The little one’s cries stopped instantly at the sound of her voice. Tiny eyelids opened to reveal striking gray eyes. Eyes the same shade as the storm that raged outside their home. The boy opened his mouth, letting out a gurgled sound of happiness. Murial laughed and continued on with her warbling song. She was hardly aware of the midwife tending to the scraps of her labor.

 

Alexander came soon after to find Murial with the babe at her breast. Slow, quiet tears still spilled from her eyes every few minutes. Alexander’s face was pale as he laid a trembling hand on his second son’s head. Someone must have told him of the boy’s brush with death. Murial’s eyes filled with tears once again when she spotted her book of poems, that Alexander had given her years ago, still tangled in the bed sheets.

 

“Sandor,” she gulped, looking up at Alexander seriously. “I want to call him Sandor.”

 

Alexander hadn’t the heart to put up any sort of a fight. Murial had been forced to watch her babe nearly die in front of her. She could call the boy Mary for all he cared; so long as she was happy and the both of them safe. He nodded his head at her. Murial went back to her weeping, one of her fingers combing through hair black as night crowning the baby boy’s scalp. The babe sighed in between gulps. It almost looked as if it were smiling in its drowsy milk sleep.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Dec. 2, 1828_

 

“I want to hold the baby!” little Gregor huffed. The boy started to kick at Murial’s ankles.

 

“Alright, Gregor! Alright!” Murial cried out in exasperation. She didn’t have time to deal with Gregor’s temper and the new one’s needs. “You _must_ be easy with him. He’s not one of the puppies!”

 

Murial motioned for Gregor to sit on a chair. The lad complied and held his arms out for his baby brother. Murial hesitated for a moment but then moved. It was hard for her to give up Sandor to anyone. For his first month she’d been greedy; she let no one but Alexander have him for a few minutes while she bathed or dressed. The rest of the time Sandor was in her arms or at her breast. He slept between his mother and father. Murial wanted nothing to do with the cradle her other children had slept in. Sandor was her star that had almost burned itself out in the beginning. Her instinct as a mother was to keep him as close as possible at all times.

 

Settling the babe into Gregor’s arms, Murial hovered over the two of them. It wasn’t like Gregor to take interest in gentler things. Gregor poked at the baby with a finger, not unkindly but with more force than was necessary. Sandor coughed; a tiny little sound.

 

“He’s ugly” Gregor declared.

 

“Gregor!” Murial gasped, “That’s not nice! He’s your brother. You ought to be nice to him. One day he’ll be your playmate.”

 

“He’s ugly and fat and small. I’ll bet I could step right on him and-“

 

Murial grabbed Sandor from Gregor’s hands. “You shouldn’t say such things! He’s your little brother. It’s your job to protect him. And he’s not ugly or fat. He looks just as a baby should. He’s perfect. Just as you and your sister were.”

 

Gregor laughed. “He looks all frumpy, like old man Taggert, or one of grandpa’s old hound dogs! His ears are all floppy! Look!” Gregor reached for the bundle in her arms but Murial swung out of his reach.

 

“Leave him be!” Murial yelled. “Go help your father!”

 

Gregor’s child eyes looked at her in wrath. Then he stormed off outside. Murial blew out a hurried rush of air. Her eldest boy was growing more stubborn and temperamental with each passing day. Taller and heftier as well. At almost six, Gregor was already past her hips and out weighed his older sister. Baby Sandor gurgled and fussed on her shoulder.

 

“Shhh, its alright sweet one,” Murial hushed at the babe. “I know he’s a fright sometimes but he’ll like you more once you’re older.”

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

_October, 1831_

 

There was a terrible scream from the nursery. Murial dropped the armload of linens she was carrying and rushed down the hallway. She had only left Sandor for a moment to collect fresh sheets. He’d been happily playing on a rug with several stuffed animals; his favorite mouse, bird and dog. What had happened?

 

Rounding the corner to the nursery at a jog, Murial was able to catch a glimpse of her babe on the ground, both hands planted firmly on the floor. His right hand he kept trying to pull from the floor while he howled but it didn’t move from where it was stuck by the boot of his older brother. The older boy had a look of fascination on his face.

 

“Gregor!” Murual screamed, watching her eldest boy draw his boot back with haste, “what in God’s name are you doing?”  She rushed over to pick up Sandor who was crying pitifully.

 

“I was walking. He put his hand under my boot. It was an accident,” Gregor said too calmly. There was a coldness in his eyes Murial didn’t like.

 

“Liar!” she yelled. Before she could stop her self, her hand raised and she smacked it solidly across his cheek. Gergor’s eyes burned but he didn’t flinch from the contact. Sandor cried out in alarm at the action. Murial regretted it immediately. She’d never struck any of her children like that before. A rap to the knuckles or a quick pat on the bottom, yes, but never a blow to the face.

 

An apology was on her lips but then she noticed Sandor’s red, swollen fingers. Two of them looked odd; bent out of place and no longer straight. “Oh, Gregor,” she cried, grief taking hold of her as she realized what it meant. “You broke his fingers! How could you?” Murial held Sandor’s wrist and kissed his hair while he continued to cry.

 

Gregor looked at the both of them like he wanted them harmed. His hand came up to his cheek. There was a visible handprint on it. “I’m not a lair! And I should have smashed all his fingers! And then yours too!” he shouted, turning on his heel and running from the room.

 

Murial was shocked. Gregor had never taken such a hateful tone with her before. He had a short temper but he usually didn’t spit such vile venom at her. She would have followed him if the babe didn’t need her more. Gregor had also never harmed his younger sibling as far as she could tell. He was rough with animals, not people, she told her self. But she knew it a lie. Gregor ruthlessly pulled Flora’s hair sometimes, and he’d been caught wrestling in the mud with other boys almost twice his age. And there were times now, she recalled, when Sandor’s eyes went wide and he whimpered when Gregor walked into the room. Had this incident not been the first between them?  Murial’s stomach flipped in a way that tried to make her sick.

 

Trying to keep her tears at bay, she cooed at the baby boy in her arms. She took him to the kitchen and found chilled water to place his injured hand into. One of the kitchen help brought in fresh snow to keep the water cold. Flora skipped in and asked what was wrong with her brother. After hearing the tale Flora gave her little brother a kiss on the forehead and starting to rip apart her favorite handkerchief into strips. Together, they told Sandor a tale about good fairies who blessed children with toys and sweet biscuits as they bound his fingers tight. Cook brought the lad a piece of fried dough straight from the simmering pots on the stove.

 

By the end of it all Sandor’s tears were drying on his face while he pinched at his sister’s cheeks in happiness. Murial was once again glad for her daughter’s help. Flora was a kind girl her self, often thinking of others and always underfoot to help with Sandor. Sandor, for his part, seemed to love his sister like no other. His first babbled word had been “ora”, a babe’s try at Flora’s true name. Not, “ma” or “da” but “ora”.

 

Murial sighed, watching her two dearest children make faces at one another. Her eyes lifted when a shadow blocked the incoming light from the doorway. Gregor stood tall in the doorframe, looking at the scene in front of him with distaste.

 

“Come and apologize to your brother,” she told him. Murial had yet to forgive her eldest son for the pain he’d inflicted on Sandor. She wanteda to hear contrite words from him first.

 

“I’m not sorry,” Gregor answered her, his voice much darker than any child’s had right to be.

 


End file.
